raunter

[raunter]

I think I write a lot about her. I still write about her now, years later. What they say about grief turns out to be right, in the end. It doesn’t go away.

Always feels really weird talking about /grief/ when mentioning her; to my knowledge she’s alive and well and maybe even thriving, finally free from her parents’ expectations, somewhere else. She’s living. She’s well, even. I think I’ve written so much about how I felt, how raw the whole deal was then, how it could still get me to cry or become frustrated or want to kick things over. What have I been grieving?

She apologized to me three years ago. I never replied.

Maybe that has to do with it. Thing is, I wasn’t that much of an upstanding friend when we had that falling out. The depression and unmedicated ADHD in an entirely foreign environment didn’t help, definitely, but I was also just... maybe a bit of a pushover. I was in love with her, definitely, not romantically but I thought I’d die for her, or something like that. I thought if she became someone successful and brilliant and definitely out of my league to keep hanging out with I’d still be there, just hovering in the corner. Because I wouldn’t have been able to let go of what we had. I would’ve taken any scrap of time she’d have to spare for me until she told me personally to get lost. Or, maybe, that’s just me imposing my current mindset on the person I was back then; I don’t think I understood my own intrinsic worth as a human being then. I thought self-sacrifice were romantic and noble and desired. I thought devotion may save us from time itself. I was 19.

In the end I walked away first. So much for all that, huh? I didn’t even really realize she was a different person, that she was going down a sad, terrifying path. I just thought I’ve been so deeply terrified of talking to her, of hearing the way she talked about who I ultimately am, still, of who I could be. I was so scared that I wouldn’t catch it and she’d call me something terrible to my face and it’d explode into something that’d ruin me. In the end she saved herself.

I’m not a hero. I’m nobody’s hero. Even with the deeply, wholeheartedly foolish devotion of a kid just knowing adulthood for a short while, I folded and left the moment it got rough. Which-- I have to believe it’s anyone’s rights to. I have to believe it, or I’d be doing so much more harm than just this bit of guilt. I have to believe my mom always has the option to leave, that my friends do, that they can tell me when I’m acting like shit, so that I can internalize that their friendship with me is genuine. That they do like to hang out with me. But, but. Still.

I think I wanted, still want, so badly to be a hero to her, because it would’ve made us something special, or something like that. Or just, it wouldn’t have ended us, at all. If I were better, if I were better at defusing situations, at talking, at-- manipulating people into being better to themselves? If I were some kind of mastermind, a benevolent god, a fucking. Angel of the lord, or whatever. If I weren’t me, maybe we’d still be friends.

I’m so fucking mad that we ended. I’m so fucking mad that she changed, and into someone I was fucking afraid of. I want us back, except not really, I don’t like who I was, and I think she wasn’t happy being her teen or early twenty self either. I want her to be happy, and I want her to have never been radicalized by fucking chuds online, and I want us to have still been friends since. I want no have never lost any of it. I messaged my mutual friends asking if he still talked to her. I was satisfied he was, what, choosing me over her? I’m not a good person. I’m trying so fucking hard to be. I’m barely trying. I don’t fucking know.

I make jokes about it all the time, now. I make jokes about how uptight her parents were, how /civilized/ and /learned/ they act, while seething inside about how much I hate them, for putting that burden of expectations on her, for not being good enough to steer her right when she arrived at a new environment. I make jokes about us being that stereotypical codependent gay bordeline-romance obsessive best friends, while being so fucking tired, so fucking frustrated, that it ended like that. I make jokes about so many things I had with you, I joke that you took all the fandoms in the divorce, I joke that I became too weird for you. I’m so fucking angry all the time, that we’re ruined. I can’t blame you, still, after all these years. You were in a new environment, we weren’t seeing each other face to face, I could barely keep up with what you were getting into, and even if I could, I wouldn’t have been enough to support you. Despite all my bravado, all my self-destructive daydreams in my 19th year on earth, I was still just some fucking kid. I was deep in depression on my own, I thought, every day, continually, that I was already not enough for you. I wasn’t fucking showering because I couldn’t handle the change to my routine. I was sleeping 16 hours a day. I was going outside twice a week to get groceries. I was piling trash in my room. I was not enough, because I was fucking ill, I was dying. That fucking country turned us both inside out. The world saw fit to kill us, to tear us apart, to not let us have this. I don’t know. I’m mad, and there are villains, but I know already getting up in arms about them wouldn’t be satisfying. Nothing would be, except for it to have never happened.

I miss you, a nebulous, unreal version of you I make up based on the person I loved, six years ago when I realized I lost her. I miss you so fucking much. I want to blame you for having taken away my sense of identity, for having defined so much of me with yourself, we were fucking inseparable, I followed you home after school every day like a fucking puppy, I was nothing without you. But that’s not fair, because this fucking condition means I wouldn’t have an identity anyway. I know now, after being not-your-friend for years, that who I am is always a cacophonic mess that doesn’t make sense even to myself. So, really, you gave me an identity at all, rather than took over any that I had. You were so kind to have grown attached to me, to have been my friends for seven years, before you weren’t, and I fucking miss you so much. I loved you. I love you. I love you. Maybe I haven’t been grieving, I’ve just realized I love you, still, and you’re definitely dead. You don’t survive this kind of change. The kid I was when I was with you died, too.

I think I’m a bit scared that if I answer you, you’d turn out to have become someone I can only be an acquaintance with. I accept your apology; it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t on either of us, that we ended up hurt. Sometimes it just turns out that way. It still kills me that you called me brave; I’m really brave when standing up for myself, when refusing to change for anyone else, when looking after my own whims and running away from you. I wish I were braver. I wish I were just a bit worse. Just a bit more obsessive. I don’t know. I don’t actually wish it. It doesn’t get any less confusing, years out, growing up. I miss you.

I hope you’re happy where you are. I’m happy where I am too, I’m just also not healed yet. I don’t think I ever will, or at least it’d take a long, long time. But I /am/ happy. I understand more about the way my brain works, I accept it’s how it is, I get to draw for a living, people actually care about my art sometimes, I’m still trans and aroace and I have many friends I love, who are in turn very kind to me. Seeing things that remind me of you don’t turn me away anymore. I hope you’re still enjoying something mundane and weird and inconsequential to the rest of the world out there. I really, really hope you’re having fun, you deserve it, no matter if I love you or not. Thank you for being my friend for seven years. Thank you for apologizing. I’m really sorry I never replied. I don’t know if knowing any of this would help or mean anything to you, but I want you to know you’re forgiven. I want you to know I hope you learned, to look out for yourself, to not cave to expectations, to understand your own compassion. I want you to know you’re loved, not because we’re friends, but because I’m learning to be more compassionate too, to be a better person. You’re loved because you exist and it’s the right thing to do, that’s it. I hope you have a good day, and the day after too.

[raunter]

i wrote something a while ago about subway stations and public transports. it can be called horror, sure, but i don't think its supposed to scare people. maybe unnerve, maybe unsettle. i myself don't find the concept terrifying.

from that day to this morning i have had three weeks of non-stop crisis, four months of lies, and a steady spiral downward. the end of last summer i lovingly called my 'lowest point', because truth be told i don't know what to feel about it, and im sick of not feeling anything. might as well love it, i say. might as well look at it fondly.

oh, the little kid hit their first bump in their newly grown-up life. learned a thing or two, didcha not?

no, i really didn't. laugh. i lied. ive been lying for so long. that point was my lowest yet, and i haven't climbed out of the pit ever since. not even once. cmon, i invite your laughter.

and this is the point, of a piece, of a post, of the day, of your life, where you take a look and sigh and say with exasperation, "jesus christ, this dude is lonely." and i dont think there's a point in denying that, huh. i come down to the subway station every morning wishing to stay, to open a maintenance door and step inside and press myself to the back wall until i mesh with it. i buy a new ticket every week contemplating the fact that this piece of paper can maybe carry me in a squashed merry-go-round until the end of time. or of me. or maybe just of the day, if its that bad. i ride an underground train at least twice a day, more and more aware of how lonely i am with each and every loop, and finding myself look at the white light as they blink, almost never doing the same myself anymore.

i got into brutalism recently. just like when writing that thing about the subway and buses, i wonder why people build these places to be so isolating. intimidating. restless. ive guessed its because there are some of us who crave that, and its comforting to have something be all of those things for you, something that functions without fail and doesn't belong to anyone. these places, the concrete buildings and the underground and the buses, in some context seem like a perfect predator with their mouth opening into cold air and irresistible pull, but that just makes us lonely, tired, unblinking folks perfect preys. and those don't fear the predator. they're supposed to feed it.

maybe if i repeat this image enough to myself, i can see it in a dream. lords know ive had some fucked up dreams lately. maybe if i dream of being dissolved into the air inside a maintenance room under the ground, then i will finally gather enough courage to finally do something about myself. maybe i will finally learn fear. and then itll finally be an actual horror piece.

[raunter]

I'm not cute.

used to be, according to my relatives, but not now. probably never again. used to be small, talkative, energetic, a crybaby, headstrong, funny, clumsy, easy to love. used to love wearing dress, love wearing accessories, love singing. not now. not ever anymore. whatever happened to that.

its all just strictly functional now. dark colored clothes. leather boots because it snows outside. big glasses, cant function without em. hair cut short (the shorter the better). socks, so many pairs. good setup, good screen, good sketchbook, good pens. good internet connection. bad language. bad communication. bad heart, good intention.

strictly functional. barely functional.

I honestly don't want to be cute. will say 'more power to the cute', but truthfully that's a new thing. hated cute. hated cute things, hated cuteness, hated things being referred to as 'cute'. the moment that word's ordained to something, that thing loses all personality. just a shiny shell. just a loveable shell.

whatever happened.

theory: its self love. an attenpt, at least. somewhere on the way I am not cute anymore, and suddenly I had to start thinking of it as a compliment. not my reality, but an effort to appeal. coincidental or not. an effort. effort. rejected that. I'm not cute anymore. will never be again. its not vital. not functional. no need for it.

theory: its a fight against the appeal. I'm different. I'm abnormal. I'm special. world doesn't cater, then I break a piece of it out. just for myself. purify it. none of it is cute anymore. will never be again. not in my world. no need for it.

theory: I'm not cute, and now cute feels like an attack, and I'm so tired.

theory: my ex-best friend likes cute thing, and we had a fall out recently.

theory: the world has to be about me, and if it isn't I will make it so to me it seems like it is.

theory: the world isn't about me, so I'm not gonna be about them either.

theory: I'm bitter. so bitter.

theory: I'm not cute.

not anymore.

never again.

please don't call me that.